


The House Call

by loversandantiheroes



Series: Case History [3]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bathing/Washing, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Harvey continues to be in desperate need of appreciation, Harvey is an anxious bean, Love Bites, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Vaginal Fingering, and basically exhaustion/comfort, mild smut to start, more will be along later, the actual smut has arrived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loversandantiheroes/pseuds/loversandantiheroes
Summary: On a very bad day after a very bad week, Harvey pays you a visit.  A follow-up to The Follow-Up.





	1. Chapter 1

The saying goes: it never rains, but it pours.  If your experience is anything to go by, the saying needs an amendment.  It never rains, but Yoba, it fucking _floods._

Everything has gone wrong, all in a row.  A small mistake in your budget has left you dipping into your savings once again when your utility bills accidentally sent your bank account into overdraft.  Frustrating, sure, and if that had been all the week had in store for you, maybe you would’ve been fine. But then the truck blew a tire. And then one of the cows managed to bust through a fence and take a joyful sprint around your fairy roses.  The losses weren’t terrible, but then the damned sprinkler system broke on top of it all, and the entire field of pumpkin plants withered up practically overnight.

There’s perhaps just enough time in the season to get a second crop in if you’re extremely lucky.  That means shelling out a few limbs for all the Speed-Gro you can load into the truck, and that’s on top of the cost of seeds.  Another dent to your dwindling savings.

You haven’t got a smile to give anyone as you drive unevenly into town on the spare tire.  It’s not that you’re angry. No, you passed angry days ago. At best you just feel like a pulled muscle, stretched past your limit and flinching at everything.  You haven’t had a decent sleep in days. The radio plays something so lost in static it could be soft jazz or black metal for all you can tell, but you can’t summon up enough of a will to give a shit and turn the damned thing off.  

Maru waves at you from the clinic window, and distantly you can hear Emily holler a greeting enthusiastically in your direction.  You keep your eyes forward and down as you park and clamber down out of the truck and try to pretend you haven’t noticed. If you had your way, you’d be home in bed with the quilt over your head.  The idea of having to talk to people - even the ones you like - sounds about as appealing as grinding a lemon wedge into a papercut.

The bell above the door doesn’t tinkle so much as clang horribly when you enter the general store.

Pierre jumps at the sound, nearly slipping off his little cracked naugahyde stool.  “Welcome to Pierre’s, how can I - oh! Hey there farmer! How’s the valley soil treating you this fall?”

Without a word, you shove a folded list across the counter.

“All right, straight to business.  I can respect that.” Pierre’s smile struggles to stay business-grade, but he takes the list and skims through it.  “Ah. Starting a new field?” he asks, clearly remembering how long it’s been since he sold you the last batch of seeds.

“Replacing the last one.  Sprinklers f-” you bite the word off before it can get out.  Polite, still need to be polite. “Broke. The sprinklers broke.  I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me, Pierre, so if we could do this quickly I would certainly appreciate it,” you say, already laying your money down on the counter.

“Sure, sure, that’s no problem at all,” he says a little gingerly, ringing the purchase up.  “Go ahead and pull around back and we’ll get you loaded up.”

Pierre is not perhaps the least fit person in Pelican Town, but he still struggles to keep up with you as you load the bags of Speed-Gro into the bed of the truck.  You can feel your back already starting to protest the strain, but you make the decidedly poor but executive decision to ignore it as long as possible. You don’t have time for this.  For _any_ of this.  Dammit.

When the last of your haul is settled in the truck you slam the tailgate with enough force that Pierre, who was in the middle of trying to wish you a good day, winces and hops back about a foot.  You offer a mumbled apology. None of this is his fault. You just want the day to be over.

Before anything else decides to happen, you hop back in your truck and head for home, radio blaring that same jumbled mess of static and faint music.  From the corner of your eye, just before the hard rattle of tires on cobblestone gives way to the looser feel of dirt and gravel, you think you catch a glimpse of brown and green, and for once it’s a fight not to turn your head.

You haven’t seen Harvey in days.  It’s been two weeks since the day you interrupted his workday to take him to bed, and since then everything’s just been a mess.  There’s been a few times here and there when you’ve been through town when you had just enough time you could slip away to his apartment for a cup of coffee and a few hurried kisses, but nothing more than that.  Harvey’s schedule has been quite busy - the run up to flu season, he told you, is almost always like this - and yours has been a goddamn disaster.

You _miss_ him.  Already.  Relationship barely even started, but this little absence gives you an awful sinking feeling in your chest.  You tell yourself it’s just the stress. You’re overworked and overwrought and everything is a little much right now.  Every emotion feels bigger like this. Sharper and stronger. It sounds reasonable enough to be true. Probably even is.  But it doesn’t make the feeling any easier to bear.

Your eyes sting a little as you pull into your driveway.  You bite down on your lower lip, focusing on the sharp pain, trying to stop the tears before they start.  Later. Be sad later. You have work to do now.

Tedious work first.  You haven’t got the sort of time to let the dead plants break down enough to plow under, so you settle for adding them to the compost heap.  You strap your foraging basket to your back and set about pulling up the dead vines, crawling along the ground on hands and knees. You’re half a row in before you realize you haven’t bothered with your gloves, but by that point your hands are filthy enough you don’t see the point in going to get them.  Just another shit thing in a long line of shit things.  Might as well keep going.

The weather is pleasant enough, warm but not hot, but there isn’t a breath of air stirring, and by the time you reach the end of your little pumpkin field, basket brimming with dead plants, you’re covered in dirt and sweating enough to turn it all into a muddied mess.

The horse regards your basket with mild interest as you near the stables, clearly hoping for some foraged goodies as a treat.

“Sorry, friend,” you say, sliding the basket off your back and emptying it into the nearby compost bin.  “No plums today. No pumpkin worth eating, either.”

The horse gives a rather annoyed snort.

“Don’t be like that,” you say, laying a hand on the horse’s nose.  “Look, this has been a really shitty week. If I had my way I’d head out foraging and bring you back the nicest plum I found and let you have a nice roam around the place.  But things went and got fucky on us. So we’ve got work to do, you and me. Ok? I promise I’ll give you something nice for all your hard work after.”

And so again you find yourself walking your horse through the field, plowing fresh tracks, laying down bag after bag worth of Speed-Gro, and replanting your pumpkins.  The plowing at least is easier than it was the first time, the ground still soft enough that the plow moves through it almost smoothly.  There's little to be done to hurry the planting along, though.  You shuffle along in the dirt once again, eyeballing the distance between seeds.  One inch down, eight inches apart, keep it moving.  When the last seed is sown you stagger your way to the storage shed.  There's a new control panel for the sprinklers mounted on the side - a gift from Maru in exchange for a bottle of peach wine and the promise of a few bottles of oak resin the next time you clear the tappers.  Saying a few quiet prayers to anything that might be listening, you hit the manual control for field B and just about collapse in relief when the sprinklers in the replanted field kick on immediately.

Nearly done. Getting the equipment back to the shed is a struggle you only just manage.  You give the horse a good brush down and a few slices off an apple you picked on the way before trudging slowly back to the farmhouse.  Everything aches. You’re not sure you’ve ever felt this exhausted in your life. Your legs may as well be lengths of hot rubber attached to lead blocks.

It’s getting dark as you reach the driveway, the sun not quite down but disappeared past the ridge of hills.  Your head snaps up to the sound of small tires on gravel.

“Hello, stranger.”

Harvey coasts his bicycle to a bumpy stop at your front step.  There’s a milk crate fastened to the rack behind him, covered in a towel.  He’s smiling, but there’s a sharpness in the way he's looking at you, taking in your roughshod state, that slips almost immediately into concern.

“Harvey.”  You try to shove the sweat-snarled hair out of your eyes with the back of your hand.  “What are you doing out here?”

There’s an edge to your voice that you don’t intend, and your stomach twists a little as what might be hurt registers in his eyes.

“Sorry, I- fuck I didn’t mean it like that, I just...I wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”

“I haven't seen you for awhile,” he says, almost apologetically.  “I- I was starting to worry a little. And then I saw you this morning in town and I started to worry a _lot_.  Thought maybe you were due for a house call.”

He fights to bring the smile back up and pulls the towel off the milk crate on the bike.  There’s a paper sack inside held closed with stickers in the shape of wide yellow stars. In the failing light you can just barely make out the logo of the Stardrop Saloon on the side of the sack.  A smell of chicken and garlic wafts in your direction as the breeze picks up, and you can just barely smell Harvey’s cologne, too.

“I bring gifts,” he says, a little hopeful.

Of all things, this is what finally breaks you.  The kindness is too much. Your composure, drawn taut like an over-wound guitar string, finally snaps, and you drop your head into your dirty hands and begin to cry.

Footsteps crunch through dirt and gravel and you shrink a little, muttering through your tears what is only half-intelligible.  That you’re sorry. That you’re filthy and you smell and he doesn’t have to come any closer, and dammit, you’re so sorry…

He makes a gentling sound as he puts his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin, and you stand there, grimy and weak-kneed, sobbing against his chest.  When at last the shaking of your shoulders has mostly calmed, he kisses the awful mess of your hair and turns you to the stairs.

“Come on,” he says.  “Let’s get you inside.”

You nod against his shoulder and move with him, clinging to his waist with one arm and furiously trying to scrub the tears from your face.

Inside is just dark enough to be disorienting.  “Lights?”

“No overheads,” you say, voice thick and uneven.  “There’s a floor lamp by the sofa. On your right.”

“I think I see it.”  

There’s a click as he finds the switch, and you squint against the light.  Harvey blinks as his eyes fight to adjust, taking in the surroundings.

“This isn’t really how I wanted you to see the place,” you say, more than a little embarrassed.  As messes go, it’s certainly not the worst, but it’s still enough to qualify as a low-grade disaster area.  “I haven’t really...I...it’s been a really shitty week, and-”

“Breathe,” Harvey says, steering you towards the couch.  He sits beside you, attentive and patient, with his hands over yours.  “Deep and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You close your eyes, fighting off a second round of tears, and breathe.  It’s harsh, and ragged, but you breathe.

“Again.”

Another deep breath, slower, a little smoother.  Harvey’s thumb rubs a small, gentle circle over the back of your hand.

“One more time.”

A fraction of the tension eases with the last breath, and the exhale is almost steady.

“Good.  Now. Tell me.”

And so you tell him.  A less than intricate breakdown of your week from hell that tumbles out of you and unspools messily like yarn.  Harvey doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t press, just sits and listens. There’s a smear of dark brown across the crisp white of his shirt.  Harvey is a neat man, it’s a point of pride for him, especially having been a bachelor so long, and you can’t quite fathom how he can bear to sit here in the midst of your depression debris field with dirt on his bleached whites and be so calm.  But he does. As if none of it is really there. Or none of it matters. Or that it’s _you_ that matters more than the mess.

When you come to the point he’d arrived, you give him a half-hearted shrug.  “Everything’s just been a lot. I guess I wasn’t prepared to see you like that.”

“If I’d known my company would make you cry, I would’ve given a bit of warning,” he says with a smile.

You shake your head.  “No, it's...I just wasn’t prepared for something good to happen after everything going wrong for so long.”  You reach up to touch his face and see the state of your hand, nails ragged and grimed with dirt, and drop it again.  “And now here I am putting a wrench in that, too. You came all the way out here to bring me dinner and now it’s getting cold and I’ve smeared dirt all over your shirt and-”

“I have other shirts,” he says.  There is a tenderness in his face that leaves your chest aching.  “Listen to me. You are not your bad days. And I am not here to judge you for anything.  Just...let me take care of you for a little bit ok? Just for tonight. I think maybe you need that.”

Fresh tears prickle the corners of your eyes, but you smile through them.  “That would be nice.”

He tunes the radio on the windowsill to a jazz station out of Chestervale, music piping in faint and tinny and sweet.  He hums along, his voice an unpracticed but pleasant baritone, as he rummages through the small kitchen. It’s all you can do not to apologize for the dishes that have piled up, or for the trash that hasn’t yet been taken to the end of the driveway.  But Harvey navigates around it all with little concern. His jacket lies folded over one of the spindly chairs around your kitchen table, his sleeves rolled up past the elbow as he shifts the wreck of dishes bit by bit to clear room in the sink. You’re not entirely sure what he’s up to until he pulls the copper kettle off the back of the stove and begins to fill it.  

“What, no coffee?” you say as he sets it on to boil.  Your voice is still a little too wavery for your liking, but he smiles a little at the attempted joke.

“Last thing you need right now is caffeine,” he says with a shake of his head.  “Herbal tea. Doctor’s orders.”

“Oh, well.  In that case I shall defer to my doctor.”

“Good,” he says, smile turning slowly into a smirk.  “I’d hate for all those years spent at medical school to go to waste.”

He leans over the back of the couch to kiss you, tipping your chin up with a finger.  It is perhaps the softest and warmest kiss you’ve ever had, and the sigh that escapes you is the first sound of real contentment that’s left you in days.

“I missed you,” you tell him.

You could swear his breath catches.

“I missed you, too,” he says, looking all at once pained and elated.  “It’s been a very long time since I’ve had anything worth missing.”

It’s a struggle to keep your hands to yourself when he presses his lips to yours again.  You grab at the fabric of your jeans, bunching the denim under your fingers, fighting the urge to reach for him.  The ragged tips of your nails catch and scratch across the heavy fabric, the sound of it a reminder of just how badly out of sorts you are.

Harvey breaks away, and by the sound of his breathing you’re not the only one who’s flustered.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asks abruptly.

The question is such a shift that for a second all you can do is blink at him.  “Uh, oh, yeah, through the bedroom on the right,” you mutter, pointing towards your bedroom door.

His eyes follow your hand and he nods.  “Right. Back in two shakes.”

You watch him go, gaze lingering perhaps a little too long.  It’s so strange to see him here. It’s strange to see him out of the clinic at all, honestly.  The times you’ve seen him elsewhere around town - when you haven’t invited him somewhere - are so rare you’ve thought him about as elusive as a unicorn, albeit a unicorn with a fairly stable medical practice.  To see him in your place is bizarre, but wonderful _._

Distantly you hear the tell-tale squeal and rush of the bathtub faucet, followed by the rattle and bang of desperately old pipes, and your heart does a little flip.

_Oh Harvey._

“How do you take your bath?” he asks, wandering out of the darkened bedroom and leaning his shoulder against the doorway.  “Warm, hot, or poaching?”

He stands there, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and a nearly unbearable warmth in his smile.  And the thought that suddenly blindsides you - _I think I’m falling for this man._

No.  Not right.  Not _falling._   _Fallen._ And you can’t even be sure when it happened.  It’s far too soon to think like that, but here you are, thinking it anyway.  You were friends first, at least, even before the incident that sent you both tripping suddenly into such an intense new side to your relationship.  There’s some comfort there, something solid under it all. But you still can’t shake the feeling that you’ve fallen so hard you didn’t feel it until you landed.

You’re damn near ready to cry again, but you do your best to swallow the lump in your throat.  “Poaching. Definitely.”

“Thought so.  Come here,” he says, holding out his hand.

The bathroom is already fogging up, steam billowing out through the door and into your bedroom as Harvey leads you inside.

“I can leave you to it, if you want the privacy,” he says, a thread apprehension running through him as he pushes his rapidly-fogging glasses down his nose so he can see you.  “Or,” he says, awkwardly gulping air, “I can stay. It’s up to you.”

“Harvey, I’m-”

“Exhausted and stressed, I know.  No hanky-panky. Scout’s honor.” He holds up three fingers solemnly and presses his other hand, still holding yours, over his heart.

A small, frayed laugh escapes you.  “I was gonna say filthy,” you say. But he isn’t wrong.  You haven’t got anywhere near the amount of energy you’d need to fool around with any degree of active participation.

Harvey laughs, one hand brushing your hip.  “Fair, that’s fair. But I mean it. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.  Ever,” he adds, suddenly serious. “That’s a promise.”

Carefully, hands clasped to avoid dirtying his clothes any further, you stretch up on your toes and kiss him.  “Stay.”

He chases your lips as you rock back onto your heels, the kiss unhurried and unexpectant of anything but itself.  You close your eyes as he rests his forehead against yours and begins to unbutton your shirt. It feels less like being undressed and more like being deconstructed.  Like all the awful parts of the past week had somehow grown on you like a parasite, and as he peels off each layer of soil-covered clothing he takes some of the week with it.  By the time he’s kneeling down to work on the laces of your boots you feel lighter than you have in days.

The kettle begins to whistle thinly as your underwear joins the laundry pile.  

“Come on.  In you get,” Harvey says, holding out a steadying hand.

The bathtub is an old cast iron clawfoot number, high-sided and wide, and as drained as you are you’re more than glad for the help.  The water’s only managed to fill the tub about half way, but sinking down into it is still divine. It is _hot_ , just as hot as you’d hoped, and you let out a shuddery sigh as you sit back.

“That is _amazing._ ”

“I’m going to bring dinner in and get your tea.  You just try and relax, alright?”

“I think I can manage that.”

The hot water rises around you, and you drift a little.  The only sounds that filter through are muffled signs and signals of Harvey’s movement around the house.  The creaking of the front door, the clink of china. You hear him speaking at one point, a little too faint to pick out words, but it sounds like half of a conversation.  The thought occurs to you that it could be an emergency in town, that he might have to pick up and leave. He is, after all, the only doctor for miles, and even if he isn’t always needed, he’s always on call.

There’s a bitter taste of disappointment at the thought, but you swallow it down.  If it _is_ an emergency and he has to go, then he has to go.  Simple as that.

By the time Harvey returns you’ve already shut the water off for fear of overflowing.  There is a chair in the corner, an old wicker and wood dining chair that usually serves as someplace to stack your towels or your clothes, and he swings it around to the side of the tub and sits beside you.  He presses a cup of tea into your hands, the tell-tale pale yellow and faint apple smell of chamomile, and kisses your forehead.

“Dinner’s on,” he says, smiling proudly, “tea is made, and you’re looking decidedly boneless.  How do you feel?”

You smile, sipping your tea.  It is light and sweet and warming.  “Better. Much. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.  I have to look after my patients after all.”  From the shine of his eyes, he means it, too. It shouldn’t surprise you, really.  Harvey is not the sort of man who would or even could stick with such a taxing profession if he didn’t find some gratification in taking care of others.  But all the same, there’s a flutter in your stomach as he levies that look on you.

“If all your patients get this sort of treatment, you should really be charging higher fees.”

He snorts, rummaging in his pocket.  “If all my patients got this sort of a treatment that would be one hell of a HIPAA violation.  You still are, technically. But I haven’t exactly got any local colleagues to pass your case onto, so I’m afraid we’re just going to have to bend a few rules.”

“Are you ok with that?”

There’s actual concern in your voice under the teasing, and Harvey looks down at you, brow knotted, suddenly serious.

“Well.  The alternative is either I can not treat you under any circumstances and you have to make the 40-mile drive to Chestervale anytime you need medical care.  Or I continue to treat you and we can’t do this. The first option worries me beyond words. The second...the thought of never being able to touch you again...I don’t think I could stand it.  So yeah. I think I’m ok with this.”

Your hand trails water as you reach for him, spotting his shirt with blotches of grey.  He makes a low sound deep in his throat when your lips meet, desperate and relieved, as if some deep ache has finally eased.

“You should drink your tea,” he mutters when he finds the sense to pull away for air.  “Before it gets cold."

And so you drink.  Harvey produces a heavy wooden comb and a pair of nail clippers from his pocket and busies himself with them, working your hair free of its elastic and combing it smooth.  When your cup is finally emptied he moves to your hands, trimming the ragged ends from your nails and kissing your red, swollen fingertips.

He washes your hair, clever fingers massaging from your scalp down to your neck.  From head to toe he scrubs you down, turning only a little red in the face when the attention turns to your more delicate areas.  You sigh as he runs the washcloth down between your thighs and his eyes flick to yours, pupils widening.  Two weeks since he's touched you like this.  It feels like years.  You angle your hips up, spreading your legs just a little wider, hungry for the attention in spite of your fatigue.  The weave of the washcloth is rough as he cups you through it, a soft stroke meant for the task at hand...and then a firmer pressure, a brief squeeze....

Water beings to slosh as your hips begin to move up towards him, and with an immense degree of self-control, you manage to still yourself.  

 _“_ _Harvey.”_

“S-sorry,” he stammers, suddenly beet red.  “Carried away.”

You catch his wrist as he begins to move away.  “The bathtub is very full.  I don’t want to make a mess,” you tell him, and the unsteadiness of your breathing is hard to miss.  With a touch of apology, you add, “And I don’t think I have the energy to take care of you, too.”

“I’m not worried about me,” he says, eyes sparkling.  The heavy steam swirls around you both, playing strangely with the light old overhead bulb.  In this light, it’s almost impossible to tell his age. He shifts his head slightly to the right and the faint crows feet at the corners of his eyes all but disappear.  To the left and they seem to deepen.  You realize you're not actually sure how old he is - you don't even know when his birthday is.  You've never thought to ask.  There’s surprisingly few threads of grey in his hair. His cheeks are still round, jaw still firm. He could be anywhere from thirty to forty-five, you can’t quite tell.

Still smiling almost coyly, Harvey continues his path down each of your legs to the soles of your feet before briskly pulling the stopper from the drain and coaxing you up and into a towel.  He holds you for a minute, swaddled and dripping, before rubbing you down with the same slow, deliberation. He drops to his knees, running the towel down each of your legs and carefully up your thighs.  The cleft between your legs glistens with a different kind of wetness, and Harvey bites at his lip, looking up at you.

“It’s up to you,” he says, a little hoarsely.  “Whatever you want.”

The thought occurs to you to just grasp him by the hair and pull him forward, but you have enough good sense to recognize a recipe for disaster.  Your legs are too wobbly, the tiles are slick, and you don't fancy risking broken bones tonight, no matter how inviting the closeness of his mouth is.  You pluck at his shirt, tugging at his collar until he stands.  “Touch me,” you tell him with a kiss. “Please.”

Harvey lets out a soft sigh and guides your arms up around his neck.  “Feet apart,” he instructs. You can feel his heart thumping hard against his rib cage.  “Hold onto me.”

One warm hand on your back holds you to him.  The other slips between your legs, stroking slowly.  Your lips find his - _not_ kissing him is an impossibility.  It’s slow. All of it. Languid and warm and full of a blooming sweetness that finds you rocking up onto your toes and searching for more.  More friction. More contact. More _him_.

You moan into his mouth, pressing up against him, nipples dragging against the fabric of his shirt.  “More.”

“More?”

“Please.”

He holds you tighter and bends to the request, fingers slipping into you.  The hand on your back guides you as you rock against him, shuddering every time he curls his fingers.

“Like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes, yes, _fuck yes_ ,” you gasp.  Your grip on him tightens as you go up on the very tips of your toes.  “I missed you.”

“I missed you,” he says, nipping gently at your bottom lip.  “I missed _this,_  too."  He squeezes, fingers working almost in time with your quickening heartbeat, and you cry out and grind down against his hand.

"Lovely," he croons, working you with a steady pace that builds and builds and builds.  "Absolutely beautiful.  I want you to come, sweetheart.  Can you do that for me?”

You nod, panting.

“Yeah?”  The heel of his hand rubs a maddeningly slow circle against your clit.

 _“Yes._  D-don’t stop.   _Please_ don’t stop.  I'm close.”  You nearly sob the word.   “ _Fuck,_ I’m so close.  Keep going, please, Harvey,  _please_ _-_ ”

His shoulder dips as he pushes his fingers up higher, curling and clasping, and for a second you can’t breathe.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says again, a rumble in your ear.

The air leaves you in a low, broken wail.  It feels like _heat._  A wash of it that starts low in your belly and flashes outward, lighting up nerves like signal fires.  Your arms tighten around his neck, shuddering helplessly, hanging on for dear life as your knees give out. And just like before, he holds you until it passes.  Until all that’s left is warmth and a sweet buzzing in your head and the feeling of his arms around you.

When at last your feet touch the ground again he’s already wrapping you up in the dressing gown that hangs from the bathroom door, trailing kisses across your face.  He is, unsurprisingly, quite hard, but when your hand brushes his hip he angles sharply away from you.

“Damn thing has a mind of its own,” he mutters a little shakily.  “Don’t you worry about it. Blue balls are just a myth, I assure you.”

A muffled beeping from his pocket startles the both of you, and he fumbles out a rather large, flat device that in your current state takes you a surprising amount of time to realize is a smart phone.

“Oh!  That’s dinner,” he says, blinking at the effort of reading the screen through his exceptionally fogged glasses.

“When did you get that thing?”

“Um, Wednesday.  This was actually one of the things I wanted to show you tonight.  I had to make a run up to Chestervale - monthly resupply for the clinic - and I passed the phone shop and...well I mean they’ve been sending me letters about how I’m due an upgrade for ages now.  And I started thinking about what you’d said about pictures and…”

You press your face against his chest to stifle a giggle.  “Harvey did you honestly get a new phone just so you could take dirty pictures of me?”

He puffs up a little, stammering.  “W-I mean they don’t _all_ have to be dirty.  I was sort of hoping we could take one together.  Not now, of course.  When you're up for it.  I'd just like the first picture I take on it to be the two of us.”

“I’d like that,” you tell him.  He grins down at you, mussed and red-faced and so sweet it’s just about unbearable, and you can’t help but add, “You’re awful cute when you’re flustered, d’you know that?”

“Flatterer,” he mutters, pressing his lips to your temple to hide a bashful smile.  “Now, are you hungry?”

“Fucking _famished_ ,” you say with a groan.  You’re not sure when, or even _if_ you’ve eaten today.

“Right this way, madame,” Harvey says as he opens the door and waves you through it.  “Table for two at _Chateau la Ferme._ ”

The phone call, as it turns out, was not any sort of medical emergency, but Harvey phoning up Gus for the sake of reheating instructions.  He produces a baking tray from the oven, laden with two sizable round foil containers full of chicken parmesan and an oblong tinfoil packet containing a quarter of a loaf of garlic bread.  Harvey’s far too used to frozen dinners to be bothered by the presentation, and you’re entirely too tired and too hungry to care. There’s still half a bottle of blackberry wine in the fridge, and Harvey pours you each a healthy splash in the first clean glasses he can find, which end up being a pair of old teal depression glass tumblers that must’ve belonged to your grandparents.

“Does this count as a first date, I wonder?” Harvey says half to himself as he fills your glass.

“It probably does.  Unless you count the wine tasting.”

A little smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.  “At least this time I got to make you come _before_ we broke out the wine.”

This time it’s your turn to blush.

The meal, though gone a bit crisp at the edges, is still delicious.  You don’t eat the meal so much as demolish it, a carb-laden apology to your overworked body.  Harvey clears the table as you sit nursing the last few sips of wine, packing the trash away into a newly emptied trash can, having taken existing bags out to the wheel bin while your tea was steeping.

He drops down beside your chair, knees crackling.

“Better?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You press your lips to his.  Both of you taste disastrously of garlic and sweet wine.  “Best.”

He smiles, stroking your chin.  "Good.”

“Tonight was…. Nobody’s ever done anything that sweet for me before.  Ever.”

His face works a little, but he ducks his head.  “Clearly you’ve had the wrong sort of company.”

A dry laugh escapes you.  “Clearly.”

There’s a pause, his eyes drop.  “I should probably head back up the road before it gets any later,” he says reluctantly.

“Stay the night.”  The words are out of you before you even finish thinking them, your fingers hooked in his collar.  “It’s Saturday. You haven’t got to be in the clinic tomorrow anyway. Stay.”

Harvey’s eyes go wide as he stares up at you.  For a second you’re afraid you’ve just jumped too far too fast, but then he swallows hard, and there’s a hopeful crack in his voice as he says, “Are you sure?”

You cup his face in both your hands, stroking your thumbs over the faint smile lines near his mouth.  “Completely.” And then, because somehow you know he needs to hear the words: “I want you to stay, Harvey.”

There’s a few too many tears in his eyes, so it’s no surprise when he answer you first with a frantic, almost bruising kiss.  As he pulls away he gives a sharp, rather undignified sniff, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.  “I wasn’t...I didn’t expect…”

“You haven’t got a single thing to be sorry for.”

Harvey clears his throat, pushing himself back to his feet, and pulls you up with him.  “In that case,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady as he backs slowly toward your bedroom.  “I should put you to bed. You need your rest. Doctor’s orders.”

“Any chance I could get a prescription for spooning?”

He chuckles.  “I think that could be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found myself having a bit of an awful time at the end of last month/start of this month, and I decided in an effort to cheer myself up, I'd write a bit more of this. Sometimes you just have to get your comfort vicariously through fanfic and that's honestly fair. And now I inflict it upon/share it with you guys! Thank you again to all the people who have left all the kudos and comments on the previous two fics. Y'all are the reason this is still getting written down, thank you so much. You can find me over at loversandantiheroes.tumblr.com if you want to throw me suggestions for other things you'd like to see since this is rather accidentally turning into a series.
> 
> Unofficial theme song for this is "I'll Take Care of You" by Mark Lanegan. Not quite jazz, but let's fake it.


	2. Chapter 2

You’ve only just got the energy to brush your teeth before bed.  Between the wine, the food, and Harvey’s attention, you’ve got an appreciable buzz on top of your exhaustion, and it’s only by virtue of Harvey agreeing to share your bed - that and the lingering taste of garlic and marinara - that you manage to convince yourself not to forsake oral hygiene entirely.  By some stroke of luck you have a spare toothbrush lurking in an unopened package in the medicine cabinet, and you lean out the door to wave it at him in offering, your own toothbrush poking ridiculously out of your mouth.

Harvey sits on one corner of your rumpled bed, working the laces of his shoes open.  He raises an eyebrow questioningly as you waggle the package at him, not quite understanding.

Charades it is.  You point to the package, then to the toothbrush in your mouth, and then at him.

“For...oh!  Are you sure?”

You nod, waggling the toothbrush at him in a clear sign of _come take the damn thing._

He shuffles his shoes under the nightstand, a charmed smile on his face as he crosses over to you and takes the toothbrush, turning it over in his hands.  The plastic handle is a bright forest green. It’s a small thing, a spot of luck, really. Trying to assign anything like serendipity to a toothbrush just feels silly.  But there’s still that smile on Harvey’s face at this little offering, something for him in your place, and you find yourself thankful for the odd impulse that prodded you into buying a spare.

Harvey loiters in the doorway, eyes flicking over the dim outline of your bedroom as you finish up.  There’s uncertainty in the line of his shoulders, but that musing smile remains.

“All yours,” you say with a little flourish at the sink.

He starts a little, then nods, stroking at the damp softness of your hair.  “I won’t be long,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Your lips find the shelf of his jaw as you shuck off the dressing gown and return it to its hook.  Harvey’s eyes go appreciably wide as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. “Take your time,” you say, leaning against him.  The dirt smear across his shirt stands out starkly in this light. You hook a finger into the front of it and give a little tug.  “Put this in the hamper. I’ll take care of it in the morning.”

Harvey nods a little dumbly.  His smile has slipped a little.  He looks dazed, as if you’ve pushed him just past a point of believing anything his senses tell him.  He looks, in point of fact, like he’s waiting for the pink elephants to appear. You can feel his eyes on you as you pad slowly towards the welcoming comfort of your bed.  You wonder now what the past two weeks must’ve been like for him, bottled up in the clinic. A little pang of guilt strikes you at the thought of the level of anxiety he must’ve reached to make his way out to see you tonight.

A few minutes later and Harvey emerges from the bathroom in his boxers, clutching the folded bundle of his clothing to his middle and hurrying to the empty side of the bed.  The nightstand on his side is largely empty, and he piles his things on top of it, placing his folded glasses just at the corner.

When you reach for him he slides in close, pulling you into his arms with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter against the side of his neck.

A ripple of tension.  “What for?”

“For making you worry.  I should’ve called. I know what you must’ve been thinking.”

“I didn’t say-”

“Harvey, you didn’t have to.”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is his breathing in your ear.  You can feel his heart pounding.

“I was afraid-” he starts, then gives a rueful little laugh.  “Not much of a shock, is it? I’m _always_ afraid.  But I know I’m hardly the finest catch in town.  Even if there isn’t much town to speak of. Until I saw you outside Pierre’s this morning, I just assumed you’d had second thoughts.”

He shifts against you, and the bunched muscles in his shoulders relax just a little as the contact seems to ground him.

You pull him down, hands cradling the back of his neck.  “There a lot of things I regret, Harvey. You’re not one of them.”

“You said you missed me,” voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.  I did.”

Slowly, and with a puzzled hesitancy that hurts your heart, he says: “I’m not sure anyone has ever said that to me before.”

You kiss him.  It’s the only response you can even begin to think of that doesn’t involve crying.  It’s heartbreaking to think someone as sweet and good-natured as Harvey could have ever gone so long denied even such small gestures of care.  “I promise I won’t leave you hanging like that again,” you tell him when at last you pull away.

A trickle of warmth beneath your thumbs as Harvey lets out a watery chuckle.  “I was supposed to be the one taking care of _you_ tonight,” he mumbles.

“You did.  You _are._  Doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you, too.”

A slight wondering shake of his head.  “You need sleep,” he says, trying to pull up a vestige of his authoritative doctor’s voice and failing almost entirely.

He’s not wrong.  The bed is so comfortable, and the warm circle of his arms even more so.  Trying to keep your eyes open is a struggle you are rapidly losing.

A soft kiss you can’t be sure if you begin or he does.  A mumbled good night from each of you. Your head drifts forward, and with the rhythmic thump of his heart against your ear, and you fall asleep.

 

⁂

 

The alarm doesn’t go off, and somehow that’s what wakes you.  A little tug of anxiety at the corners of your brain that says a routine has been disturbed.  It’s only barely light out when you open your eyes. The ancient double-bell alarm on the nightstand, from the best you can read in the dimness, puts the time at 6:10.

Sprinklers.  You should check them at least, be sure they kicked on this morning.  And the animals will need feeding. But it’s warm. Your bed has never felt this warm or this cozy.  

And then the warmth gives a soft snore.

There is an arm around your waist, another curled around yours under the pillow.  Harvey. Still asleep, by the rhythm of the breathing that stirs your hair just a little bit, but the arm around your waist curls a little tighter, pulling you back against his chest.  And Yoba, he is so _warm_.  Practically a human space heater.

You’re nearly drifting, not just comfortable but _comforted_ , when Harvey shifts against you, trying to pull you even closer.  He sighs, soft and contented and still very much asleep, but you can feel the stirrings of at least one part of him that is eager to greet you.

The impulse hits you to grind back, to let him wake up with his morning wood nestled firmly between your thighs, but that is perhaps a little too devious for your first morning together.  And after last night, you can’t help but feel that Harvey deserves a little softness.

You turn carefully in his arms, trying not to wake him too suddenly.  He stirs a little, eyes blinking but not quite opening, and the hand on your back slides up between your shoulder blades.

“Morning,” you whisper, pressing a feather-light kiss to his lips.

Harvey lets out a soft, humming groan.  “Time is it?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

“A little after six.”

 _“Early,”_ he groans.  “You should be in bed.”

You giggle, stroking his cheek.  “I _am_ in bed.”

“Good,” he humphs.  “Stay here.”

He rolls a little toward you, resting his forehead against yours.  Something warm and delightfully _full_ presses against your thigh, the button fly of his boxers apparently having come undone.  The delicate skin of his cock drags along your thigh as he shifts forward, and his breath catches.

Smiling, you cup the delightful roundness of his ass and hold him there, gently rolling your hips. “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” you say.

His mouth hangs open as you move, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused.  “Am I dreaming?” he asks, the words edged with a nervous laugh.

“Well if you are, I am too.  And if this is a dream, I’ll thank you not to wake me.”  

He is fully hard now, a firm length lodged against the seam of your thighs.  It would take nothing at all to part your legs and roll onto him, to take him into you.  The thought makes you shiver, squeezing your legs together out of a desperate need for friction.  

His hand roams slowly over your skin.  From your back down to your buttocks, feeling the muscles tense as you move.  Up across your side, grazing the curve of your breast to find your throat, not squeezing but holding, feeling the vibration there as the first quiet moan breaks from you.  

The sound shakes the last of the sleep from him, eyes going wide and hungry.  

“More of that,” he says.  His hand slips down between you, finding the cleft between your legs.  You part for him, canting your hips up towards his hand. No longer constrained, his cock springs up, slapping against the slickened folds of your cunt.  A shudder ripples through you, and you let out a harsh and startled cry as deft fingers worry over the rising nub of your clit.

“Make a little noise for me,” he mutters thickly.  He rocks forward, not entering but sliding against you, a teasing friction that leaves you panting and dizzy.  The motion of his fingers, however, is anything but teasing. The angle is odd, but he remembers the stroke that had left you shaking in his arms in the tavern’s back room and he finds it again now, working you with a measured intensity that speaks very clearly of the goal he has in mind.

His hips push forward, far enough you feel him dip dangerously close to your entrance.  Your breath stops, half in anticipation and half panic, before he angles himself down and away, cock dragging against his restlessly circling fingers.  

“Harvey, _please.”_

“Oh yes,” he mutters, fingers working faster as you begin to buck towards his touch.  “I want you to come for me, sweetheart. Nice and loud. Don’t hold back.”

You hardly needed the encouragement, but his voice is low and growly and honey-sweet, and it seems to spark that trembling heat between your legs into something much, _much_ brighter.  Your moans build louder and louder as Harvey trails biting kisses along your shoulder up to your neck.  He presses his teeth into you, not enough to hurt but enough to _feel_ , and you come with a shocked cry, thighs clamping firmly around his cock.

He groans, trapped and rocking against the pressure.  “Good morning, sweetheart,” he mumbles in your ear.

 _“Fuck,”_ is the first word you can manage.  Mind still fuzzy, you fall to giggling.  “Good morning to you, too. You’ve got a bit of dom in you, kid.”

A vibration against your neck as he chuckles.  “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

You laugh.  “Back to the double entendres.”

“Credit where credit is due,” he says, lifting your head to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth.  “My terrible double entendres are how we got here in the first place.”

“All part of your master plan of seduction, I take it,” you tease, squeezing just enough to make his eyes flutter closed.

“Hardly.  The only plan I had that night was to go home and think about you while having a good old-fashioned stroke.”

“Really, now.  Did you do that often?”

“Oh yes,” he says, swallowing hard.  “Still do.”

“Thinking of me?”  A slow, deliberate grind of your hips.

“I- you- _oh,_ it is impossible to think when you do that.   _Yes._  Practically all I’ve done for the past two weeks.”

You chuckle and kiss the side of his nose.  “Dirty old man.”

He laughs.  “Is that an objection?”

“Not at all.  In fact, I think I’ll have to ask for a demonstration sometime.”

He goes a little still, struggling to find enough sense to make words and the breath to speak them. “You...want to watch me-”

“I would _love_ to watch you stroke yourself,” you correct him.  His cock twitches _hard_ between your legs.

“N-now?”  His restraint is already fraying, hips twitching up towards the clamping tightness of your thighs.

“Tempting,” you mutter, dragging your lips across his.  “But later. If I don’t get you inside me soon I might lose my damned mind.”

He groans.  “Tell me you still have the condoms I gave you.”

You do.  A parting gift during one of your all-too brief visits to his apartment last week.  “Behind you. Nightstand drawer.”

It’s a struggle.  Partly because you’ve still got him by his proverbials.  He contorts a bit, fumbling the drawer open, swearing at both the near fruitless attempts at searching the drawer and the continued distraction of your gripping thighs.

Unwilling to pull away, he eventually just starts yanking things out unceremoniously.  Two paperback books hit the floor. A spare hairbrush. He pulls out a long, white contraption that takes him a few solid seconds to process as a vibrator before he starts almost comically and tosses it back in the drawer.  You fall to laughing, and seconds later makes a triumphant little _“Ah-hah!”_ as his fingers close over the box.

“I’m going to need that for a moment,” he says, pulling out of your grasp as he tears the wrapper open.

“Only if you promise to give it back,” you tease, kicking the quilt down.

Harvey catches your knee in the crook of his elbow and pulls you forward, condom applied in record time.

“Promise,” he says as he sinks into you.  

 _Slowly_.  Two weeks is hardly a record for celibacy, but the size of him is not inconsequential, and though you’re certainly more eager you’re also a little less prepared this time than you were the last.  You feel the stretch, a burn that steals your breath even as it melts away into a far sweeter heat.

Harvey pushes in to the last and holds there, swearing under his breath.  

You want to tell him how badly you’ve missed him, how much you’ve wanted him, how good he feels, but the information jumbles on its way out of your brain and when you open your mouth all that comes out is a high, bright laugh.

 _“Yes,”_ you manage through the laughter, hands brushing across his face and shoulders and down his back.   _“Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes.”_

Harvey shakes his head and lets out a low, rasping chuckle.  “This is all I’ve thought of for days,” he says. He’s moving, but you’re not even sure he means to.  A smooth rocking that might be as involuntary as breathing. “I’ve _dreamed_ about it.  About you.”

“Good dreams, I hope,” you reply.

He laughs.  “You have _no_ idea.  If I have to wash the bed sheets again I think they might fall apart.”

Moving at this angle is tricky, laying on your side with one leg hoisted, though that doesn’t stop you from trying.  Harvey has all the leverage, and as you make the attempt to wriggle down against him, he takes the hint and uses it. He pulls you down farther, not quite hilted from this position, but damn close to it, and begins to thrust up properly into you.

You forget how words work.  Rational thought shorts out, and it’s just as well, really.  You’re all too happy to lose yourself to heady kisses as the two of you fall into a rhythm.  It is somehow the _easiest_ sex you’ve ever had.  For all the anxiety Harvey seems to carry in him you would’ve expected it to take more than a little patience and dedication to find how to fit together.  And while it’s true that Harvey may as well have patience and dedication woven into his bones, it barely seems necessary: you just fit. A lucky pull on the biological slot machine.  Three across, all sevens. Thank Yoba.

He pushes up, deep enough to make you groan, the muscles in your leg beginning to shake.   You swear, nails digging briefly into his shoulders, and the sound it draws from him - deep and guttural and just short of a growl - sends a rolling shock of heat straight up your spine.

“Oh that’s a lovely sound,” you mutter, panting.  “I wonder what else will get that out of you.”

Your fingers twist into his hair before he can say anything, tugging his head back just enough to run the tip of your tongue along his exposed neck.

His throat works, a strangled whisper as his hips stutter and slow.

“Hm?”

“Bite me,” he gasps.

You chuckle, remembering the faint impressions of his teeth that had lingered on your calf for days after the last time and the marks you’ll undoubtedly bear on your neck after today, and trail your lips down to the junction between his neck and shoulder.

“Yes.”  Barely a whisper.  Harvey has gone entirely still, buried deep and throbbing inside you.

“Oh you sweet thing,” you mumble against his skin before your teeth sink into him.  Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. Something to remember you by on the long nights in between.

 _“Fuck!”_  Harvey bucks into you with a hoarse cry.  

You’re still sore from yesterday - though strangely not nearly as much as you should be - and it’s a small relief when he lets your leg drop and rolls you underneath him.  He bunches up on his knees, guiding your legs around his waist. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning your arms above your head as he lowers his head to suck eagerly at your breasts.

You arch up, head swimming.  He is not an overwhelmingly strong man, but he is a _big_ man, and enough of his weight is balanced on your clasped hands that you can’t quite move.  You writhe under him, pressing against the attention of his mouth and the slow, sure movement of his hips.  

He’d told you once, pressed up against your back, that he’d gotten around when he was younger, and damned if he doesn’t move like it.  Each thrust is steady and measured, pulling nearly out and then sliding back in, deep and strong. Every time he bottoms out another sharp jolt runs up your spine.   

That sweet, bright heat begins to build again as his teeth scrape against your nipple.   _Slow and steady wins the race_ , you think dazedly.  You’d laugh if you could do anything with your voice but moan.

Harvey groans, rhythm going off-kilter.  “I can feel you,” he says, and when he raises his head to look at you, those mild, pretty eyes of his are bare slivers of deep green on black.  “Come for me.” It’s half-command and half-plea - voice low and husky, but with the taut, quivering edge that says he’s desperately close to his own peak and in danger of tumbling over.  He quickens his pace, not pounding but almost _insisting_ .  “I want to watch you come.  I want to feel it. I want to know I can make you feel that good.  Come for me, sweetheart. I’m so close, I can’t stand it, I need you to _come.”_

And suddenly that bright heat flares, bursts, _burns_.  Your back bows up with the force of it, limbs taut and straining.  And it’s a blessing there’s no one but Harvey around to hear, because you haven’t a single ounce of control over your body to stop the hoarse cries that tumble out of you as you fall apart.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs in a broken voice, eyes never leaving your face.  “Oh my dear - _oh-”_

He comes with a strangled shout just as your own cries begin to subside, eyes shut tight against the sensations that drive him into you in stuttering, erratic thrusts.  And just like before you can _feel_ him, a strong, throbbing pulse that hits again and again and doesn’t seem to stop.

His cries only stop when he runs out of air, face turning a deep and almost worrying shade of red before he finally gasps a great shuddering breath.  He falls forward onto his elbows, burying his face against your neck, still shaking. No longer pinned, you get your arms around him, holding him close and rocking with him until his breathing steadies, muttering praises in his ear.

Harvey raises up, not much, but enough for an open and achingly gentle kiss.

“I-” he starts, then stiffens, blinking.  “I missed you,” he finishes hesitantly. And in his face there’s a mix of fear and bitter disappointment in himself that you know without a doubt what he wanted to say.

You sweep the sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes and hold his gaze.  “I missed you, too,” you tell him.

The fear subsides.  His eyes are over-bright as he bends to kiss you again.  He understands.

 

⁂

 

Neat as he is, it’s not much of a surprise when Harvey asks to use your shower afterward.  It’s more of a surprise to him, however, when you offer to join him. He flushes brilliantly, but agrees after what is, for him, surprisingly little hesitation.

It’s a gently fumbling affair, the both of you still loose-limbed and buzzing.  He enters the tub first and it is almost immediately determined to be the incorrect choice, as he’s so tall he blocks the showerhead entirely.  Neither of you can help but giggle as you shuffle awkwardly, trying to change places without slipping and falling. You soap him up as he sets to washing his hair, muttering about how he’ll spend the rest of the day smelling of coconut in a voice that does not sound half as put out as he pretends to be.  Partly it’s a repayment for the attention last night. Mostly, you’re not ready to stop touching him yet.

He jumps when your hands move down past the swell of his belly towards his groin, nearly getting shampoo in his eyes in the process.

“Easy,” he sputters.  “I’m...that’s...it’s quite tender.”

“I promise I’ll be gentle,” you reassure him, hands sliding up between his thighs, barely grazing the over-sensitive skin.

He grumbles as he rinses the last of the suds out of his hair, slicking it back and fighting to focus his eyes.  “You are incorrigible.”

“Frequently,” you agree, cupping his balls in one soapy hand.

He stoops, water running off the top of his head to trickle down yours, and kisses you.  A little harder than necessary perhaps, teeth nipping at your bottom lip.

“If that’s supposed to dissuade me, I’m afraid you’ve missed the mark,” you mutter.

You slide your hands around behind him, stroking the curve of his ass and giving it a playful squeeze.

He makes a small sound, though you’re unsure if it’s because of what you’re doing with your hands, or just because his poor over-wrought cock keeps sliding across your stomach.

“You have a _fascination_ , madam,” he says, combing your hair back with his fingers to let the water rinse the sweat out of it.

“An appreciation,” you counter.  “You have a lovely ass."

Harvey laughs a little, flustered.  The color in his cheeks rises even higher as you run your hands in widening circles, fingers brushing down the crack of his ass.

“Y-you don’t- I can take care of that,” he mumbles, but the softened length of his cock gives an interested twitch against you.

You smile up at him sweetly, filing that reaction away for later, and slide your hands up his back and around to his chest.  “Another time, then,” you tell him, stretching up for a kiss before turning to rinse yourself off and let him tend to himself.

Barely audible over the rush of water, you hear a strained whisper of _“Sweet Yoba.”_

“Plans for the day?” he asks a few minutes later as he stands dripping on the bathroom rug, toweling off his hair.

“Coffee, first of all.”  
  
Harvey makes a highly agreeable sound at that.

“And I do need to get your shirt in the wash.”

“Right,” he says, blinking.  “I’d forgotten about that. I haven’t got anything…”

“I have some old t-shirts that will probably fit you, don’t worry.”

He glances down at you, eyebrows raised, clearly trying to imagine how anything that fits you will fit him.

“I bought them for sleeping, I practically _swim_ in them.  I promise I’m not going to hand you a crop top.”

He laughs a little as you pad out of the room and rummage through your dresser.  There’s a few in here that are so large they might actually be too big for him, but you find an old band t-shirt you’d thrifted years ago, the words _Digging For Clouds_ screen printed on the front in a white and wispy typeface around a shovel.

“Try this,” you say, handing it through the open door and turning to pull on your own clothes.

Harvey emerges a few moments later, holding his arms out stiffly.

“Well?”

It’s utterly bizarre to see him in a t-shirt - particularly over dress slacks - but once the shock of it wears off you can’t help but appreciate the way his broad chest fills it out.

“Very nice,” you tell him truthfully, pulling your own shirt down over your head.

He nudges his glasses up, fidgeting.  “Dunno if I’d go that far.”

“I would,” you tell him, cupping the back of his neck.  “And farther, too.”

For a time you find yourself distracted by him - _with_ him - pleasantly entangled and in no hurry to remove yourself from the touch of his lips against yours.  Eventually, though, he pulls away, breathing unevenly.

“We’ll lose the whole day if we keep this up.”

“I wouldn’t call that a loss,” you say, but restrain the urge to chase after the warmth of his mouth again.  “But you’re right. Coffee, laundry -”

Harvey’s stomach gives a sudden growl, and he adds in a quiet, slightly hopeful voice, “Breakfast?”

Giggling, you nod.  “Breakfast. And then I believe I still owe you a tour.”

“I would like that,” he says with a smile.  “Very much.”

Your own smile lasts only until you walk out into the living room, Harvey’s shirt bundled under one arm.  The mess, though diminished somewhat with Harvey’s help, still remains, not having the decency to take care of itself while you were otherwise occupied.  Your shoulders slump.

“For a minute I forgot."

Harvey straightens, shaking his head.  “Don’t even worry about it,” he says. “You’ve got two extra hands today.  We can knock this out no problem.”

“You don’t- Harvey I didn’t ask you to stay so you’d clean my house.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you do this all on your own, or leave it to sit and make you feel worse.”  He gestures at the wadded shirt in your hands. “I have a washer back at the apartment, you don’t have to launder that for me anyway.”

“I told you I would,” you tell him stubbornly.  “It’s the damned least I can do for you after everything you’ve done.”

“After this morning I consider that paid in full,” he says with a smirk.  “But if you insist, I’ll make you a deal. You can wash my shirt if you let me help with your kitchen.”

“This is a little ridiculous, isn’t it?” you mutter.

“A little bit.  But if it works, that’s the important part.”

“Alright.  Deal.”

Harvey beams.  “Excellent. Now.  For the love of Yoba, tell me you have rubber gloves.”

The cleaning goes quickly.  Harvey quite clearly enjoys the process, and that it helps you seems to brighten him even further.  By the time the dishes are set to dry and the coffee pot is gurgling he’s twirling you slowly around the tiny room as the radio plays, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever stop smiling.

Your cupboards are edging towards bare, but there are eggs and a bit of bread, and enough apples to make a rough spread for the two of you.  It’s not much, but Harvey wolfs it down with enormous enthusiasm, not used to such strenuous activity so early in the morning.

“We’ll need to go by the barn first,” you tell him around a mouthful of toast.  “The kids’ll be grumpy, I usually feed them earlier than this.”

“Kids?” Harvey asks, clearly puzzled.

You hold your hand up, ticking fingers off as you list: “One cow, one goat, three chickens -of which you have to thank for about a third of breakfast.  Also a horse, who you do _not_ have to thank for breakfast, because that would be weird.”

Harvey whistles appreciably over the top of his coffee cup.  “I didn’t realize you had so much out here. How big is this place?”

You give a little snort, nearly choking on breadcrumbs and blackberry jam.  “Trust me, that’s still small. Any more than this and I’d have to hire on Shane full-time.  Wonder Woman I am not. But to answer your question, the farm’s about 500 acres total, but there’s only part of that that’s cleared and productive right now.  Less than half, really, until I can afford to get a tractor without filing for bankruptcy and do this properly.”

“You’ve been doing all this by _hand?_ By yourself?”  It’s hard to say if he sounds more concerned or impressed.

“Shane helps a couple times a week.  Maru’s been a help with jury-rigging some equipment and refurbishing some of the old stuff in the barn that wasn’t completely beyond salvage.  I’ve paid Alex and Abigail to come out and help on the heavy harvests, too. But the rest is me.”

“That’s...kind of incredible.”

You shrug in what you hope is a modest fashion, sipping at your coffee to hide a smile.  “Needs must. And it beats Joja Corp any day.”

A little frown starts to crease Harvey’s brow as he pushes the slight remains of his eggs around on his plate.  “I hope yesterday isn’t a common occurrence.”

“Not anymore, no.”  It’s as much an admission as a reassurance, and it doesn’t escape him.

“Why didn’t you-”

“Because I’m _stubborn_ ,” you say with a sigh.  “And occasionally foolish.  And it was long before you and I were even friends.  Besides, the most you could’ve done was give me fluids and a bit of ibuprofen and tell me to take it easy for a few days.”

“And now?” he says, familiar lines of worry appearing on his face.  “If it happens now, what will you do?”

“With any luck, it _won’t_ ,” you say, leaning your elbows on the table.  “I’m more careful now - usually, anyway, when my head's on straight. I’m more experienced. And I have help.”

“But if it _does_ ,” Harvey insists, “you come to me, all right?  Don’t just sit here and….” he trails off, raking his hands through his hair.  “You _matter_ to me,” he says slowly, reaching across the table for your hand.  “If you need me for _anything_ , from hangnail to hemorrhage, you call me, or you come in.  Night or day. Please.”

Without letting go of his hand you rise, circle the table, and slide into his lap.  He gives a long sigh, eyes closing, as you press a kiss against his forehead.

“You worry too much,” you tell him gently.

He laughs, a sharp, dry bark.  “So I’ve been told.” He hesitates, eyes fixed on your clasped hands.  “I’m sorry,” he says at last.

“Apology accepted.  I don’t suppose telling you not to worry about me will do any good?”

His head gives a slight, shameful shake.  “Not really, no.”

It takes a little coaxing - his head is bowed, brow still furrowed spectacularly - but you draw him up enough to cover his mouth with yours.

“Thank you,” you tell him.

“What for?”

“Taking care of me.”

His expression softens.  “Any time.”

 

⁂

 

The day is mild and breezy and frankly beautiful as you step out of the cabin with Harvey in tow.  He is quite keen to see just what you’ve done - and what you _do_ \- both out of genuine interest and that perpetual concern that always seems to be churning away at the back of his mind.  You outfit him with a spare set of work boots Shane left squirreled away in a corner to spare his shoes any mess. He at least had the presence of mind to change out his wingtips for walking shoes before cycling up to your house the day before, but you still reckon it’s better to be safe than sorry.

He’s reluctant to get close to the animals, both out of his own nervousness and a full awareness that his size might spook them a little.  A little coaxing gets him at least within petting distance of the goat, who seems at ease enough with the newcomer to make a solid attempt at nibbling the corners of Harvey’s jacket before you finally distract it with a handful of alfalfa.

The fields are damp when you come to them, sprinklers working as intended, and you feel Harvey’s hand on your back as you let out a relieved sigh at the sight.  “Thank Yoba for Speed-Gro,” you say, leaning against his touch.

Across the way from the replanted pumpkin patch are thick rows of flowers - sunflowers, mums, and slow-growing fairy roses - and six new, idly buzzing bee boxes.  You make sure he’s not allergic before leading him closer to the hives. He hesitates, torn between his nerves and a fascinated interest, but eventually lets you lead him close enough to get a good look at the set up.  

Finally, you take a turn through the remnants of your grandfather’s orchard, still in desperate need of replanting.  All that still stands is a bent and stubborn old apple tree, half of a slowly-recovering grapevine, and a thick wall of blackberry brambles.  All else was lost to weather or disease long before you came to the valley.

Harvey stands under the boughs of the last tree, looking up.  “This one’s persistent.”

“Resilient.  I had to trim so many broken branches when I first got here, I thought for sure I was going to have to cut him down.”  You point to the clear cuts along the bole of the tree, fading now to a brownish-grey.

Blinking, as if in sudden thought, Harvey reaches up and pulls an apple from the nearest branch.  He turns it over in his hands, a shocking pink blush against a yellow-green.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he says with a little chuckle and a half-shrug that says he knows it’s a _terribly_ lame joke, but it’s all he could think of.

“Well don’t eat it, then,” you say, stepping closer and pulling it from his hand.  “I’d rather keep you around.”

Harvey takes a breath, a look of strangely delighted panic in his eyes.  “We could do this again,” he says, blurting it out in a rush. He gives himself a little shake, forcing himself to slow down.  “Next weekend? If-if you wanted.”

“I would love that.”

Harvey beams.  His eyes seem to shine a little brighter with every hint of acceptance, so that now, in the dappled light under the twisted old apple tree, they are an almost luminous green.

“You still have your phone?” you ask him.

He blinks, lost for a moment, then fumbles at his pockets.  “Uh...um, yes! Here. Why, what-”

“You wanted a picture of us.  Let’s take it here.”

The concept of a selfie is a bit alien to the man, but he seems to get the general idea once you show him how the camera works.  The real trick is getting you both in frame, which takes more than a little trial and error before you climb up a bit on a particularly high-arching tree root and lean into his shoulder.  His phone gives an artificial shutter-click, and Harvey helps you down, handing the phone over to you.

“What do you think?”

You stare at the result, smiling.  “I think you look the happiest I’ve ever seen you.”

“You’d be right,” he says, leaning his head against your shoulder.

 

⁂

 

It’s getting dark once again as you drive Harvey back into town, his bicycle in the bed of the truck.  A small knot of townsfolk next to the saloon spot you as you pull up. Maru, Penny, Shane, and Emily all turn and wave, yelling greetings that trail off as Harvey hops down out of the truck wearing a t-shirt under his green tweed jacket.

“I’ll be getting an earful tomorrow,” Harvey mutters, cheeks red, clutching his clean shirt to his chest.

You hop up into the bed, lowering his bike down over the side.  “Call me if you need a rescue,” you say as the bike touches down, leaning out of the bed towards him.

“I might have to.  Maru is… _inquisitive._ And immensely persistent."

“Maybe I can eliminate a few questions,” you say, grinning.

There is utter silence when you bend down further and kiss him.  Distantly you think you hear Shane mutter _“Holy shit,”_ before Emily begins to cheer raucously.

“Coffee tomorrow?” you ask as you pull back.

Harvey stares up at you, dazed.  “Y-yeah. Yes. Yes, coffee. I would...yes.”

“I’ll see you then,” you tell him.  “You should hurry on in before you get ambushed.”

You hop down over the side and wave back at your friends, who have patently lost their minds at this new development, and give Harvey one last kiss as he hurries by before climbing back into the driver’s seat.

Your phone is already lighting up on the dashboard as you pull away, a flood of notifications from at least three different numbers.  Your new lock screen blinks on as you rattle down the road. Reflected in the dashboard is the bright image of Harvey with his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close and smiling the biggest, broadest smile you’ve ever seen.

The last text is displayed over it, hiding a bevy of others, and even reflected you can read it easily.

_I’ll miss you.  Good night. x_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up SO much longer than I intended it to. My god. If you've stuck around this far, you deserve a cookie. Also go drink some water. Stay hydrated, it's what Harvey would want.


End file.
